Darkness First

by James Hayman

  ‘How noble. Were they ever able to confirm his story?’

  ‘Yes. The woman stepped forward and said yes, Sean had been in her bed.’

  ‘And they believed her.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. They believed her. Absolutely.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The woman was Susan Marsh.’

  ‘Our Susan Marsh?’

  ‘That’s right, our Susan Marsh.’

  ‘Jesus. Really?’

  ‘Jesus. Really. Exactly what I said when Tracy told me the name.’

  ‘Think Marsh’ll talk to us?’

  McCabe shrugged. ‘Only one way to find out.’

  He pulled his cell phone from a fanny pack, checked to make sure he had a signal and punched in a number he knew by heart. It wasn’t that he called Susan Marsh all that often. It was just that he had this weird memory thing going. Remembered every number he’d ever called. Just about everything else too. Useful in his line of work.

  ‘Attorney General’s office,’ a voice on the other end announced.

  ‘Susan Marsh, please.’

  ‘May I tell her who’s calling?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll see if she’s in.’

  A few seconds later a familiar female voice said, ‘Hello, McCabe. Long time no talk. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Hoped you could spare me and my partner a little time today.’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘Some evidence in a murder case I’d like your opinion on.’

  ‘The woman beaten to death in Portland? What was her name? Mary Farrier?’

  ‘No. Another one.’

  ‘Really? Didn’t know you had any other murders down there lately.’

  McCabe didn’t elaborate. ‘All we need’s a half hour or so.’

  ‘Today’s totally jammed. I’m due in court in ten minutes. But if you like, you can stop by the office at the end of the day, say five o’clock?’

  ‘Five’s good. But this one’s a little sensitive and I’d rather not run into any of your compadres. Why don’t we meet down in Capitol Park? Say, on the Union Street side? We could walk and talk at the same time.’

  ‘What’s this about, McCabe?’ This time she sounded suspicious.

  ‘I’d rather discuss it in person.’

  ‘Very well. But you’re making me very curious.’

  ‘See you at five, Susan.’ He hit the off button. ‘Okay. Done and done.’

  ‘Think she’ll mind me being there?’

  ‘Tough shit if she does. In fact, you should do the talking. This is your case.’

  46

  11:07 A.M., Monday, August 24, 2009

  Machias, Maine

  As they made their way back to the parking lot, Frank Boucher called.

  ‘Haskell’s still missing,’ Frank told her. ‘The last person to lay eyes on him was a woman named Annie O’Malley. She owns a bar here called Dirty Annie’s. Kind of Luke’s home away from home.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what Stoddard said. Have you questioned her yet?’

  ‘Briefly. She called us and said she was worried ’cause she hadn’t heard from Luke in a couple of days. So I had one of my guys stop in at her place and get the basics. But I thought I’d leave the real questioning to you. I told her you’re on assignment with the Eastport PD and that you’d be stopping by.’

  ‘You say anything to the staties?’

  ‘Not yet. So far it’s a missing-person case and my official position is we’re investigating it internally. Far as they’re concerned you’re working for me. At least until further evidence shows up.’

  Maggie drove back to her house, showered and changed, then picked McCabe up at his B&B. They headed north on Route 1 toward Eastport.

  They found Dirty Annie’s at the south end of Water Street. The place had no windows. Just a green door and a small sign announcing its presence. McCabe pulled the door open and he and Maggie went inside. Even on a bright summer morning it was as dark as a cave. They stood for a minute to let their eyes adjust. When they could finally see, they descended three steps into the main room. About a dozen tables, all empty at this hour except for salt, pepper, ketchup and chrome napkin holders. A few solitary morning drinkers perched on stools at the long bar. Most seemed to be concentrating on their beer and shots and not doing much talking except for one guy who, unless he was wearing a hidden headset, was having a heated conversation with himself. Muttering something about the stupid fucks not knowing what the fuck they were doing. The drinkers glanced at the newcomers then turned their attention back to their drinks. None of them had any interest in talking to cops.

  Annie’s bar was thinly stocked. Bud, Miller Light and Shipyard on tap. Everything else came from a bottle. Booze consisted of low-end brands of most of the basics: rye, bourbon, scotch, vodka, gin. That was pretty much it. No way in hell was McCabe going to find any of his favorite single malts in Dirty Annie’s. A bone-skinny bartender of indeterminate age stood staring up at a muted TV that was tuned to an ESPN talk show. No closed-caption video. No way of knowing what any of the talkers was talking about. Maybe the guy was a lip reader. He was close to six feet tall and couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred and twenty pounds. A two-day growth of gray whiskers poked out from his sallow cheeks. Maggie waited a few seconds then called across the bar to him. ‘Excuse me? Annie O’Malley around?’

  ‘Who’s asking?’ A woman’s voice directly behind them. A deep, raspy smoker’s voice with a hint of a brogue. Maggie and McCabe turned at the same time and faced Dirty Annie. She was a big woman. As tall as Maggie and twice as wide. Some, but not all, of her bulk was fat. The rest looked to be muscle. She could have easily picked up any two of the drinkers at the bar, one under each arm, and tossed them out on their ears.

  ‘I’m Detective Margaret Savage,’ said Maggie. ‘And this is my partner, Michael McCabe.’ McCabe nodded. ‘Are you Ms O’Malley?’

  ‘Just call me Annie. Everybody does. Frank told me you were the Sheriff’s daughter.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘How is the old geezer? Always had a soft spot for him.’

  ‘Fit as a fiddle,’ Maggie lied. ‘Sends his regards.’ Another lie. ‘Anywhere we can sit and talk?’

  ‘I assume you want to talk about Luke.’

  ‘Yes, we do. By the way, you can call me Maggie.’

  ‘And you?’ she said to McCabe. ‘What do I call you?’

  ‘McCabe works.’

  ‘Okay. Why don’t you take that table in the corner. I’ll get us something to drink. What would you like? Beer? Wine? Something stronger?’

  ‘Coffee would be good,’ said Maggie.

  ‘Two coffees,’ said McCabe.

  ‘Anything to eat? On the house.’

  The two Portland cops thanked her but declined the offer. They went to the corner and sat with their backs to the wall facing the front door. Most of the lighting was dim and artificial except for two slanted shafts of sunlight that entered through a pair of rectangular slits just below ceiling height and lit up a million dust motes.

  Annie came back, carrying three beige mugs of coffee and three old-fashioned glass thimbles of cream on a round, brown tray. She sat with her back to the door. ‘Where do you want to start?’

  Maggie took a sip of the coffee. Freshly made and surprisingly good. ‘You called Frank Boucher,’ she said. ‘Told him you were worried about Luke Haskell. What got you worried?’

  ‘Luke didn’t show up for dinner last night.’

  ‘Why’s that a cause for worry?’ asked McCabe.

  Annie smiled. ‘Luke’s one of my lost boys.’

  ‘Lost boys? Like in Peter Pan?’

  ‘Yeah. Like that. Except I’m no Tinkerbell. You find ’em in every fishing community. Guys with no wives, no families, no place to go except a bar they begin to think of as home. In this town, they come to me. Fact of the matter, Luke’s my original lost boy. Been coming here since the day I ope
ned nearly twenty years ago. This place is more of a home to him than the Katie Louise or anywhere else he’s got. Has dinner here most nights but especially on Sunday. He told me he’d be here for sure last night. Bring me a couple of lobsters to grill if the catch was decent. Two of us’d eat ’em upstairs in my apartment.’

  ‘You and Luke have a relationship?’ asked Maggie.

  ‘You mean sex?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Off again, on again over the years. Mostly off again for the last couple. We get together when one of us feels horny. Or when the loneliness of his life starts getting to Luke and he needs a little comfort beyond the booze. I’m willing to offer it. Works for me too. I’ve been seriously under-fucked for a long time.’

  ‘So he was supposed to come here Sunday but didn’t?’

  ‘Nope. Not for dinner. Not for later either. I’m worried something might have happened to him. Especially since I heard about Pike and Donelda Stoddard.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw him?’ asked Maggie.

  ‘Saturday night. I poured him out of here around one A.M. while he could still kind of walk. Pointed him in the direction of home.’

  ‘Home being the Katie Louise?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Luke a big drinker?’

  ‘They all are.’

  ‘All the lost boys?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘How drunk was he when he left?’

  ‘Drunk. But like I said he could walk.’

  ‘If you’d offered him another drink would he have taken it?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Luke has a hard time turning down alcohol.’

  ‘Anybody you know hold any grudges against Luke? Anybody who might want to see him dead?’ asked McCabe.

  ‘Dead? You think Luke’s dead?’

  ‘No idea. But it’s one reason people go missing.’

  ‘Jesus. Can’t imagine why anybody’d want to kill Luke. Nothing to gain from it. The guy’s basically a harmless drunk. Got no money, his brains are half-fried and, far as I know, he never took up with anyone’s wife. And I can’t think of any other reason anybody’d have anything against him.’

  ‘Anybody else you can think of we should talk to?’

  ‘With Pike Stoddard dead, not really. You can try his stern man. Guy named Walter. Don’t know his last name.’

  On the way back to the Blazer Maggie told McCabe about the empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s she saw lying on the deck of the Katie Louise.

  ‘You’re saying he went back to the boat, had a few more drinks and tumbled overboard?’

  ‘I might be, except for one thing,’ said Maggie.

  ‘Yeah, I know. He goes missing the same night Pike Stoddard is killed. Coincidence, coincidence.’

  ‘Exactly. And you don’t believe in that kind of coincidence any more than I do.’

  47

  1:00 P.M., Monday, August 24, 2009

  Roque Bluffs, Maine

  Two hours later, at exactly 1 P.M., two tall figures – one male, one female – stood on the stony beach in Roque Bluffs, looking out at the choppy waters of Englishman Bay. Sam Harkness was dressed as he’d been on Saturday night except his blue-and-white-striped shirt had been exchanged for a plain blue Oxford one. Shirt-tails still hung over his khaki shorts. Maggie wore black jeans, a white polo shirt and a beige cotton blazer that concealed her weapon.

  ‘How’s Emily?’ Sam asked.

  ‘She’s going to be fine. Recover completely. My father will be bringing her home. Probably tomorrow.’

  ‘Good. Have you solved the murder yet? Tiff’s murder?’

  ‘No. But I think we’re making progress.’

  ‘That’s good too. I’d appreciate it if you could let me know when you do catch whoever did it.’

  ‘I’m sure it will be in the papers.’

  ‘I don’t read the papers. Anyway, what was so important you had to talk to me right away?’

  ‘I need to see your manuscript. A Slender Thread. At a bare minimum the pages dealing with Conor Riordan. You didn’t bring them in Sunday morning.’

  ‘No. I was still angry at your insinuations.’

  ‘I hope you’ve had a change of heart. Or at least a change of mind.’

  ‘I have. About quite a few things actually. The manuscript’s ready for you. I’ve marked the relevant pages with Post-It notes. It’s in the studio.’

  ‘Good. Thank you.’

  ‘In return I need a small favor,’ said Sam.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’m leaving for New York in a couple of days. I won’t be back.’

  ‘What’s going on, Sam?’

  ‘Margaret, please give me a minute. I’ll get there. I’ve resigned my professorship and I’ll be putting the house on the market. But before I do I’d like to give Emily a chance to buy it privately. I’m willing to offer her a price well below market. I’d like you to tell her that. Em is more likely to consider the offer if it comes from you than from me. There’s still too much anger there.’

  ‘Why would you sell her the house for less than it’s worth?’

  ‘Oh hell, Maggie, I’d give it to her if I didn’t need at least some money out of the deal. She loved this place more than I ever did. Almost as much as Julia. And Julia loved her. She would have wanted Em to have it. You can also tell her, if she’s interested, I’ll leave her most of the paintings. I’ll have no room for them in a Manhattan apartment and there were quite a few she liked.’

  Maggie didn’t react. Just waited for Sam to continue.

  ‘I’d also like you to have some of them. I’m thinking of the ones of you. I’ve always thought they were some of Julia’s best work. There was a youthful energy to you in those days, an exuberance Julia managed to capture. They’re really quite beautiful. If, for some reason, you decide you don’t want them you can always sell them. These days Julia’s work fetches a pretty decent price and those canvases, good as they are, should get well above average.’

  ‘You could sell them yourself.’

  ‘I could. Julia’s galleries both in Portland and New York would be eager to have them. But I think you should be the one to decide if you want nude pictures of yourself hanging in public places. Especially in Portland.’

  ‘Thank you, Sam. I doubt anyone would ever know it was me but I appreciate the kindness. Yes, I’d be happy to have them. And not just to save myself embarrassment. You’re right, they are good. At least the one you’ve got hanging in the studio.’

  Sam bent down and picked up a golf-ball-sized stone and threw it into the water. Willie dashed in after it and hunted in vain for the missing object, swimming in circles.

  ‘That’s a little mean, isn’t it?’ asked Maggie.

  ‘I think he enjoys it.’

  ‘What triggered this decision?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about my life lately. Really since the divorce. Who I am. What I’ve become. But it was the events of the last couple of days – Tiff’s murder, Em’s injury, your visit Saturday night – that really brought things into focus. I’ve discovered I don’t like what I’ve become. A drunk. A layabout. A third-rate professor in a second-rate college who spends most of his energy trying to screw students barely above the age of consent. It’s not a pretty picture. Not what I wanted to be. If I was a character in one of my own novels, I’d have me jump off a bridge.’

  ‘What will you do in New York? Teach?’

  ‘No. I’m a better writer than teacher. I’m going to try to finish the novel. It’s the best work I’ve done in years. Some of the credit for that belongs to Tiff. To the energy and enthusiasm she brought to the book. As well as a number of good plot twists. Not that she’ll know it now but I’d always planned to give her credit when the book came out. Certainly the dedication. Maybe some credit in the acknowledgements. I just hope you catch whoever killed her. I think you know by now it wasn’t me.’

  ‘I do. Listen. If you really want to do what you’re saying, Sam, you
have to do something about your drinking. If Saturday night was any indication, it’s totally out of control.’

  Sam smiled. ‘Thank you, Margaret. It’s amazing how much you and Emily sound alike.’

  ‘Em was always right about that. The drinking I mean.’

  Sam waited a minute before answering. ‘Regarding the booze,’ he said, ‘we’ll see. When I get to New York, I’ll try to cut down. If that doesn’t work maybe I will go into rehab. An old friend from Harvard is on the board of the Caron Institute in Pennsylvania. He’s been asking me for years to let him get me a place there.’

  ‘Not a bad idea.’

  ‘Like I said, we’ll see.’

  They both watched as a beautifully crafted wooden sloop, its sails filled with a strong breeze, tacked just in time to avoid slamming into the rocks.

  ‘The baby wasn’t yours, by the way. I thought you’d want to know that.’

  ‘No. I was sure it wasn’t.’

  Willie emerged from the water and shook himself vigorously, sending a fine spray flying off his long, silky coat a dozen feet in all directions. Sam picked up another stone and tossed it into the water. But Willie, refusing to be fooled a second time, simply flopped down on the warm stones and rolled over on to his back.

  They walked back to the studio and Maggie waited while Sam slipped the thick pile of the manuscript, its pages held together with rubber bands, with Post-It notes sticking out here and there, into an oversized yellow envelope.

  She looked up at the painting on the far wall. The one she’d posed for. Sam was right. It was good. He was also right that she wouldn’t want it hanging in some gallery in Portland or Manhattan. In her own apartment perhaps. But not on Madison Avenue.

  ‘Here’s a copy of the book as it stands right now.’ He handed her A Slender Thread. ‘About 300 pages so far. You can read it all if you like and tell me what you think. I’ve marked the pages you should focus on.’

  ‘May I read them here now?’ She didn’t want to wait.